Filet-O-Eastern Culture

   Since Ben decided to bring us back to the days on Mitchell Avenue, I'll share with you a few cultural lessons I learned from Amir's family.
   As Ben mentioned in the previous post, Amir was a friend of ours from the block, who happened to be Indian (as in Bombay, not Cherokee). He was the oldest of 3 children in their house. He had a brother named Kabir, who was wheelchair bound due to MD, and a sister named Meinase (pronounced Men-Ahs), who was Ben's age.
   Amir was one of my best friends in those days. We did just about everything together, from riding bikes, to those stupid wagon races (really stupid); even working on a number of foreign cars with his dad. His Dad owned a mechanic shop down on Vandeventer, somewhere, and would always drive home one of the cars he'd been working on from the shop, and tinker with it at home. Strange cars. All little foreign jobs. All a little obscure. I can remember Fiats, Opels, Triumph Spitfires and TR3's, and a few Volkswagens (Which Amir pronounced "Wolksvagon"). Not very common cars. I even worked on a '75 Porsche 911, once. That is, if you count holding a flashlight or crawling under the car to retrieve dropped bolts, "working on it". Good times nonetheless. Amir's father did not ever speak English in my presence, so I really have no idea whether he could speak it, or just chose not to. But when he spoke, it didn't matter what language he was speaking. If he had something to say, it was loud; and apparently urgent. Everything had to be done in a hurry. His mother, on the other hand, could speak English very well, but was not permitted to do so in her husband's presence.
   I never really gave much thought to the cultural differences that we had, though. I mean, Amir was just Amir. He wasn't Indian to me. He wasn't Hindu to me. He was just my friend. I was about 8 or 9 years old at the time, and didn't give such matters any thought. I suppose the innocence of my youth prevailed in regards to such things, but I just didn't ever think about it. That is, not until much later.
   As a kid, back then, I never gave much thought to the different colorful saris that Amir's mother wore, or the jewel on her forehead. I paid even less attention to the various statues of Hindu gods and cows that seemed to be in every room of the house. I do remember the cows, though, and thinking to myself, "Wow, they sure like cows!". But, to me, it was no different than my mom's collection of porcelain angels, or so I thought.
   Something that did strike me as a little different was the obsession they all seemed to have over the now infamous Filet-O-Fish at McDonald's. His mother would often take us to McDonald's after an afternoon of playing at the park, or whatever, as a treat. And they would all order the same thing everytime; Filet-O-Fish sandwiches. I remember thinking that they must just really love those things. After many years, though, it dawned on me. That was the only thing on the menu that, because of their Hindu beliefs, wasn't offensive for them to eat!!!
   The point is, that as a child, you didn't give much thought to the color of someone's skin, or what religious beliefs they had. There's an innocence, there, that transcends cultural bias, prejudice and bigotry. A blindness that actually allows you to see. To see someone for who they are, not what they look like or what they believe. Sometimes, the greatest lessons can be learned from childhood. To me, Amir was just simply Amir. Oh, to be able to keep that kind of innocence!!
   When we moved away in 1982, I never saw or spoke to Amir again. Since I never knew his last name, I'd probably never be able to find him, anyway. But I can still remember, fondly, the fun we had in the old neighborhood.
   It wasn't until was much older, that I learned a bit about Indian culture and Hinduism, and how the sari is a ceremonial garment. The jewel on the forehead (or bindi), depending on the color and shape, represents a woman's marital status, and/or what sect she belongs to. And, that a cow is a sacred animal in their culture. Interesting stuff!
   I mean, I'm no scholar of Eastern philosophies, but at least I know enough now, to know why they weren't very fond of the Quarter Pounder with cheese!!!!


Thanks for reading.

The Mitchell-McCausland 500

I suppose that all children have some sort of daredevil blood in them, something that drives them to do obviously stupid things, in order to secure glory, as well as accolades and admiration from their equally unintelligent friends. Richmond Heights, Missouri. 1982. After a winter that had seen the most massive snowstorm recorded in the St. Louis area’s recent memory, my brother Andrew, and some other kids on the block, including Amir, the Indian kid that lived up the street, decided that this spring would be one to remember. They were always getting into some sort of danger, I recall. I was about seven or so, and not quite having learned to ride a two wheeler yet, was amazed when I would watch Andrew and Amir, and their matching Schwinn StingRays, complete with Stick Shifters, banana seats and jacked up sissy bars, as they rode them around the neighborhood. With the veracity of their bikes, the idea of racing them was inevitable. Off they would go, down the hill on Mitchell street from Yale to the bottom of the hill… As I recall, Andrew was almost always the winner, because although his StingRay lacked the flash of Amir’s, his was a five speed, while poor Amir only had three gears to grind. Such as it was, the races went on through the spring, until they decided that the Yale hill just wasn’t cutting it anymore. So they climbed up the massive summit that was the hill from McCausland Street. A Straight down slope with a dangerous grade. In those races, Amir gave Andrew a run for his money. Enter Jim Bates, another neighborhood kid with an even flashier death wish. He remarked one day that racing bikes was all well and good, but how much better would it be in souped up toy wagons? An insane idea, I knew from the beginning….even when he furnished the racers with motorcycle helmets. The Yale hill was never even considered, because if you were brave (or stupid) enough to race the wagons, then certainly only the steepest grade would do. So the preparations were made, and the racers made their way to the top of the hill. Andrew in a standard Radio Flyer, and Amir in a Hillilly Hellwagon, complete with white spray painted wooden boards. The flag was lowered, the race began, and St. Mary’s hospital got a little busier that day. I’m not sure where Amir is today, but if you find him, and ask him, I’m sure he’ll show you his scars.